


And Down Will Come Baby

by DeviousPaleKitten



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, BAMF Little!John, BAMF!John, Bondlock, Caregiver!Bond, Caregiver!Sherlock, Caregiver/little, Consensual sexual relations between a Caregiver/Little, F/F, F/M, Human Trafficking, Kidnapping, Littles are precious and should be treated as such, Littlesareknown, M/M, No medical expertise so I'm probably making a lot of this shit up, Non-consent and sexual manipulation of a Little is super punishable, Noncon Drug Use, Not a professional murder solver so I'm making that up as I go along too, OCs for people and victims I add as I go on, Serial Killers, Sexual Assault, THERE ARE NOT ENOUGH LITTLE Q FICS OMFG, Tags may change as we get deeper into this mess, little verse, little!Q, little!john, murders, noncon, serial murders, yes for real
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-08-27 12:11:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16702312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeviousPaleKitten/pseuds/DeviousPaleKitten
Summary: “God, Sherlock, he almost looks like he could be related to you.” John sighed off topic and then waved at the corner waiting off to the side to come now that they were done with their preliminary exam.“No. Not me.” Sherlock mumbled softly as he watched the body get loaded up onto the gurney, water dripping off it like sunshine crystals. A different face ran through his mind.***Someone is killing Littles and dropping their bodies in the Thames. Littles that have dark hair and beautiful light eyes. After the third body is a found, Sherlock steps in and realizes just how dangerous this was becoming. He needs to warn his younger brother, Q who is a Little and thinks he is invincible just because he works for MI6 and has one of the government's top spies/assassins looking out for him.But what happens when the specific reason Q thinks he's safe is the exact reason why he's the biggest target of all the Littles that have been targeted?(summary sucks, but I hope the story doesn't)





	1. And The Sea Foam Birthed Aphrodite

**Author's Note:**

> It's literally been years since I've written something and published it. And after a whole year of reading 00Q and Bondlock, I feel like I can finally have my own say in this fandom that feels like they have welcomed me in.
> 
> So here is the very first murder/mystery I have ever written,I cross m fingers in hopes that this doesn't turn into a messy web of shit and actually becomes something.
> 
> Sadly, no Q yet in the first chap. It mainly Sherlock characters. But Q will be the second chap,I promise. And little peek at James too <3

The first body washed up on the shore of the Thames in such a way and manner you did have to check your surroundings to make sure it was indeed real life and you weren’t just cast in some stereotypical best selling crime novel. It was grizzly, unforgiving weather, clouds surpassing grey and rolling right on to black. It was a difficult task to even determine day or night. Wind and rain whipped around every which way, you’d swear the sheets of water were actually falling  _ up _ .  It was a miracle the little steamer boat in the river even spotted the poor dear, body half in the water, skin as dark and grey as its surroundings. If the water wasn’t being moved by the wind and storm no one would have seen it lapping at the shore and at the body that was in its way till the weather cleared, surely.

Scotland Yard was called in, of course, needing to rule out drowning out something worse. It was going to make the papers no matter what, but any other time it would have been buried pages under the other gruesome things going in the world. A dead body in London? Because that was indeed head turning and worthy of a gasp.

It wasn’t till reports hit that the body was one of a Little did a powder keg ignite and proceed to explode. It was on the front page of  _ everything _ , circling around the news in every country of the free world, and it was reposted so many times on all social media platforms it could have crashed a couple servers. Especially when the post-mortem revealed that it was not, in fact, a drowning. Someone  _ murdered _ this Little.

Eighteen-year-old Aiden Grace had been missing for three months, Scotland Yard had the form filled out by his Caregiver, twenty-eight Lyle Norbert, submitted forty-eight hours after not being able to get a hold of Grace and Norbert suspected something was wrong. Police looked into it, no foul play, no evidence of abuse or a runaway. It was as if Aiden Grace had just  _ vanished _ . CCTV has him last seen leaving an Indian restaurant with Norbert the night before his disappearance, heading north where the two of them lived. The next day Norbert went to work at the greengrocer's where he is employed as the manager, Norbert said that was the last time he had seen Grace. Up till news circuits flooded with photos of Grace’s cold,  lifeless face on a slab hit local media outlets in means to identify him.

Aiden Grace hadn’t looked like he was eighteen, but Littles almost always looked like they were perpetually stuck somewhere in their middle teens. He was slight and lithe, again like most Littles, and he had a head of lush dark locks and brilliant blue eyes, with full pouty lips. He was like some harpooned angel that was washed up on the jagged shore. It felt like the entirety of Great Britain mourned with Lyle Norbert. Until the next body was found. 

The second body was discovered much in the same way as the first, this time it was dawn and promises of a sunny day. A drunkard was stumbling home when he thought he saw someone was floating in the water unconscious, he jumped in to try to assist. But it was much too late for any sort of help to come. And once more people were in an uproar when it was leaked that the second body was a Little as well.

Mary-Alice Knight was twenty years old, and had no Caregiver at the time so she lived at home with her mother and father. Her parents had put in a missing person report for her almost a  _ year _ ago. They had thought she had run away with a professor of her that seemed to fancy her at her university because he had left about the same time Knight disappeared. Scotland Yard drug Professor Kent Knoll, a Caregiver in his early fifties, in from his new research project in Nice, France. Knoll’s story was that he had left when Knight’s disappearance had broken his heart, he was in tears when a photo of her lifeless body from the morgue was shoved in his face. They dove into Knoll’s life in France, his research, meetings, finances, previous credit card purchases. Nothing shifty came up. Mary-Alice Knight was released to her family to finally be put to rest.

There were no real connections between Mary-Alice Knight and Adien Grace. They lived in different parts of London, different backgrounds, Grace had a Caregiver and Knight didn’t, Knight was a student and Adien wasn’t. The only thing that was peculiar...was if you put their photos side by side. Knight was a dark beauty as well with her long raven colored hair and light hazel eyes, pale and almost translucent skin turned grey by the river. Mary-Alice and Aiden could have been twins if you didn’t know better. 

It had been this very fact that Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade had come to as he poured over both files on his desk in his office at NSY, putting in a bit of brainstorming during his lunch hour. He was sipping his tea and eyeing the two poor souls in the photos that were attached to the manilla folders. Had you never of known their surnames or birthdays you’d swear the two Littles were related, maybe it was a lead in what the killer preferred. Maybe it was Lestrade working this case so hard he was going cross-eyed. It was bad enough when they just had one body on their hands, now with two, it was all hands on deck for NSY. 

Someone was sick and perverted, that’s for sure. A post-mortem found extensive sexual assault and damage from what must have been a continuance and a multitude of hands. There was also traces of a drug in their systems that made them pliant, probably to keep them quiet too...and maybe even to keep them in their younger headspaces while such acts went on. A sexual nature between a Little and Caregiver was only discussed and agreed on  _ between the couple _ . Some Littles dropped too young to have any sort of wants or urges. But to have any such words or consent just be ripped away from you, especially if the Little had indeed been  _ Little _ . Lestrade wanted to castrate the bastards himself with a hot iron.

Lestrade sighed and tossed the napkin he used to wipe his hands of grease from the chips he had just finished when his phone vibrated where it was perched up by the light on his desk. He closed the Knight and Grace files before reaching for it, clearing his throat and rolling his eyes when he saw who it was from. This could only be bad news or really annoying news, there was no middle ground. But Lestrade still slid the message open and braced himself for the inevitable.

 

**_Third body found at usual place._ **

**_Meet you there._ **

**_-SH_ **

\---

It was a bit like deja vu by now. Pull up to the river and dodge curious onlookers, some even had their mobiles out recording and taking photos. It didn’t take much for Lestrade to pull out his badge and get the crowd to part for him and to duck under the yellow crime scene tape. There were a couple other cops there, even his associates, Donovan and Anderson. Anderson had his forensics kit with him but he was standing off to the side, making a sour face. One would think it was aimed towards the body taking the central focus of everything, but those who knew better knew it was really for the man leaning over the new body with a tiny rectangular spyglass. Intimidating, long, violet coat billowing in the breeze coming off the water, and wild dark curls victim to the same treatment.

Lestrade, old hat to this routine with the crazed ‘consulting detective’, took the moment to take in the scene himself. They were closer to the bridge this time, Parliament and Big Ben had an up close and center viewing to this horrific show. The victim looked male from where Lestrade stood, with a sort of water sodden haircut that left hair on top of his head that looked to be styled and bare under around the neck and ears. The hair that was there was dark in colour, just like the previous two, and Lestrade didn’t have to ask to know that the boy was probably pretty and with light colored eyes. And that the boy was a Little.

The thing that did catch his attention was that the body was dressed in clothing. Mary-Alice Knight and Adien Grace had been found stripped and were as nude as the day they had been born. Red trousers that looked almost black with how much water they had absorbed, a black shirt and grey fleece jacket.  _ That _ wasn’t part of the script they had believed the killer had started following.

“It's fake!” The taller detective finally exclaimed as he straightened up and pocketed his tiny spyglass.

It was enough to get Lestrade to blink himself out of his own examination and focus on the source of his usual headache. “What? The body?” He asked in confusion. This would be some kind of cruel trick someone was playing at a time like this if it was. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sunk his hands in the pockets of his coat as he stepped closer to Lestrade, ” _ No _ . Not the body, the  _ hair _ . The hair is fake. The boy is a natural blond. He has dyed it that jet black colour.”

Lestrade looked back to the body, the dark locks were the only thing contrasting against the rest of the paleness the body had taken on from being in the river. From this distance he couldn’t tell anything was a lie just looking at the boy. He wondered if the killer could have been able to tell.

“Did you get close enough to see roots?” Lestrade asked, taking his turn to get closer to the body, even from there the dark hair looked natural to him, especially while wet.

“No need,” Sherlock said in such a way that sounded like he was trying to hold back an exasperated sigh. “The parts where he has shaved and shortened, the follicles aren’t dark enough to suggest his hair is darker than anything past Ash Blond, nothing that would match the rest of the hair on his head at the very least.”

Lestrade hummed along as if he understood what Sherlock was really saying. It did take him a minute to finally get it, leaning in closer to the back of the boy’s head, now that he knew the boy was really a blond, he supposed could see what Sherlock was saying, the scalp was was way too light.

“I wonder if that ticked off our killer when he found out himself.” Lestrade mused out loud. Blonds didn’t seem to fit the profile of their victims, even ones that were dying darker. “What do you make of the clothes, then?” He asked next, turning back to the other man. 

Sherlock gave a shrug, looking a bit like a creature of the night with his collar turned up and hiding half his face in his coat for protection against the chilled wind. “They look like he was a mistake,” Sherlock answered, lifting his head to keep his words from getting too muffled. “He was grabbed, he wasn’t what they were looking for, so they needed to get rid of him in a hurry. I would bet you’ll find fewer signs of assault on him too if his trousers and trainers are still there.” Which they were.

Pulling himself back up, Lestrade checked his watch. It was just after lunch when this was called in, and though he couldn’t guess himself, he’d guess that rigor hadn’t even fully set yet. “It must have been dark when they took him. And to get close enough to see what you just saw and instantly know he was coloring his hair, they had to of gotten  _ close _ to him.”

He heard Sherlock hum behind him, back to hiding his face. Giant, judging, light colored eyes following Lestrade’s every move. Lestrade could tell Sherlock was trying to mentally work out the story here with several different scenarios, that was just fine with him. Its how the man worked, and this was better than having Sherlock bounce around insulting everyone’s intelligence like he does on the regular.

“Right,” Lestrade cleared his throat, tearing his eyes away from the body, “We have an ID yet?” He asked, wanting nothing more than to get the boy back to his family. It was the least they could do right now since he doubted this one would get them any leads either.

“Here, sir.” One of the patrol uniforms stepped up and handed out a bi-fold wallet decorated with some kind of cartoon or comic character Lestrade only vaguely recognized because of his young son. But a name or placement didn’t come to mind, not that he cared about that right now. It wasn’t the name he was after right now. “Left back pocket in his trousers.” 

“Jesus, they really didn’t bloody well care for him at all, did they.” Lestrade mumbled as he went through the wallet. ID, bank cards, a couple single bills, and even the library cards were still there. 

“Sloppy.” Sherlock commented to no one in particular, eyes out on the water again, anywhere but here. But it was still obvious he was listening and taking in what was needed. “Finally.”  
“Evan Yeager.” Lestrade finally voiced the name. The poor Yeager family, then. Then something caught his eye on the boy’s ID and Lestrade’s head snapped up to the other man, “Sherlock, it says he’s from Brooklyn, New York. A Little wouldn’t be traveling all the way across the pond _alone_.”

It was enough to have finally gained the Holmes’ full attention again, and he stalked forwards with long legs to take the ID from the detective to inspect it himself. This particular Little was getting more and more intriguing, but only giving him more questions rather than answering anything. 

Sherlock made no other comments, especially not when Dr John Watson finally managed to get through the crowd, seeming a bit smaller than all those strangers gathered around as usual. But the tape was still lifted for him and he came forward, pulling his own coat closer in on himself when he too felt the chill now that he had no shelter from it. 

No one missed Sherlock giving the good doctor a fond look over before he yanked the entire wallet from Lestrade’s hold to scour through it himself. Though he moved to where he could stand more next to John when the doctor paused in front of Lestrade.

“Sorry about that,” John offered a slight bashful smile, “Traffic was obnoxious from the clinic to here, news has already spread quite far. Some are already screaming for the PM to put up some kind of State Of Emergency. Shall I?” He nodded toward the body. 

Though John was already moving forwards before Lestrade could really answer, putting on his professional face. It was a shock to most who met John Watson to learn that he was actually a Little. A  _ very  _ accomplished Little. One of the first in the Royal Army, one of the first to be a medic in said Army, and one to even shot a gun and be shot by one as well. And even then he didn’t strive to seek a quiet life with a Caregiver and take on the easy life after being discharged. No, he somehow found the most unstable, erratic, and manic Caregiver and go on with his medical career. Now he was a doctor at a Clinic for other Littles, and he was the most loved morbid sidekick to his unhinged Caregiver. John Watson was a very complicated man himself.

And though this was looking to be a serial involving Littles, John didn’t flinch or waver as he examined young Evan Yeager’s body, Sherlock keeping half an eye on him. It was a common thing for Lestrade to enjoy working with the doctor than Holmes.

“His spine looks to have been severed. Death instantly.” John assessed, tilting Yeager’s head after pulling on a pair of latex gloves, “At the neck.” He went on, lifting the boy’s head to get a better look. “No external wounds or blood, but some bruising is starting to form...they might have done it with their bare hands.”

Lestrade cursed under his breath and shook his head,“Someone was  _ pissed _ . Why? Because he was blond and American? Who can even snap someone’s neck like that?” He spat.

“John can.” Sherlock answered with a shrug. “As can anyone who is trained and can get enough force behind it. Though you can just as easily paralyze someone as well, you have to be sure you have the right vertebra on the neck and some kind of knowledge of anatomy.”

Sherlock then tossed the wallet at Anderson behind him, barking, “Make sure you bag that  _ correctly _ this time. It already has enough water damage, the last thing we need you making even more of a mess of it.” He missed Anderson’s own murderous look when Sherlock moved up to kneel next to John.

“Military or some kind of special forces I might be willing to buy,” Lestrade started, shoving his hands in his coat they were cold and wet from handling the wallet himself, “But only for this one. It’s got so many inconsistencies from the first two. How do we even know its the same person and not a copycat?” 

“Because a mistake was made.” Sherlock answered calmly, checking the boy’s eyes while John checked rigor. “Which means they still need a pretty Little with dark hair. It also means there might be two taken if they’re working a deadline and they lost this one. It’s also highly likely that you’ll now find two bodies next time, as well.” 

“God, Sherlock, he almost looks like he could be related to you.” John sighed off topic and then waved at the corner waiting off to the side to come now that they were done with their preliminary exam. 

It wasn’t a lie, with the sun getting higher it was casting longer shadows. Catching the ones on Evan Yeager’s pronounced cheekbones. He had been a pretty one, just like the other two. Had he of kept his blond hair the killer would have never given him a second look.

“No. Not me.” Sherlock mumbled softly as he watched the boy get loaded up onto the gurney, water dripping off him like sunshine crystals. A different face running through his mind.

John was pulling off his gloves and shoving them in his pockets when Sherlock suddenly grabbed his hand and started to pull him up the shore back towards the crowd that was starting to dissipate a bit since some were following the gurney to the coroner's van. “Let us know if anything unusual turns up. And by anything I mean  _ interesting _ .” He called over his shoulder at Lestrade.

“We’re not following the van to St Bart's?” John panted, trying to keep up with Sherlock’s long stride and not catch himself on the crime tape when they went under it again.

“We have a stop to make first.” The Holmes informed his sweet doctor. “It’s come to be time that this talk was needed. Whether or not it’ll be received kindly or not even I can’t say.”


	2. Blood Is Thicker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, here we go. First time actually writing Q! Though I actually love writing Sherlock,hes more fun than you'd think...
> 
> I feel like this chapter kind of rambles on...but I was avoiding writing Q so I just filled it with stuff that kind of goes on.
> 
> Also have some Bond. Have some handsome Bond. Have some John actually being mesmerized by the handsome Bond because its the first time they meet face to face-- and what a handsome and lovely face that is ;)

Away from the river and the wind, it was a lovely day, just as promised. The sun was out, trees were green, people were walking more instead of taking cabs. It had been a dreary winter, one that felt like it would never end, but today brought hope for spring. John had shed his coat when they had gotten out of their cab, their destination being too far to really walk to. Though Sherlock was still wearing his signature purple, collar still trusted up and looking he should be stalking some kind of seedly alley way, or a haunted castle. 

It just made John roll his eyes and then proceeded to roll up the sleeves of his shirt. If their business wasn’t so grim he’d go and suggest they forget all this and go get something sweet and cold, drag Sherlock for a nice walk in the park. Something normal couples did every so often. He knew he could occasionally get Sherlock to enjoy it too, though it was never admitted out loud.

The neighborhood near Vauxhall was modest yet proud, trees dotting the sidewalks that were just now starting to bloom sweet white flowers. There were just as many people outside there as there had been where Sherlock and John’s cab had picked them up, families, joggers and their dogs, couples holding hands and feeling love in the spring air. There was a newstand they passed, papers all declaring a third body of a Little had been found, some suggesting already a serial killer. Others, the more radical and ridiculous ones, suggesting some kind of government conspiracy. At the moment it was still up in the air to declare which one was right.

It was enough for Sherlock to grab John’s free hand that wasn’t carrying his coat and dragged the doctor faster.

They stopped at an unsuspecting building, one that looked just as brown and cream as its surrounding neighbors and something you wouldn’t look at twice. It didn’t take long to wait for the front door to open with one of the building’s occupants and they slipped inside, no need to buzz a stranger and pretend to be a new guest who lost their keys.

“And just whose house are we sneaking in with such urgency?” John sighed as he followed right behind the detective. Not like John was going to stop Sherlock, he learned long ago that would never work. It was just easier to go along and make sure Sherlock didn’t get into too much trouble.

But Sherlock didn’t give an answer, he ushered John into the lift instead, hitting the fourth floor button and then took a stance in the corner like a dark and imposing gargoyle.

“Sherlock, you know I don’t appreciate being kept in the dark like this.” The doctor reminded, patience running thin. “Tell me what the hell we’re doing here.”

John watched Sherlock’s jaw muscle tick, and starlit eyes flicker to him. But the lift dinged and opened on their desired floor before anything could be said or amended. And Sherlock was out the door in an instant, coat still flapping about behind him as he moved in his hast. John was just left sighing, and inevitably following after him before the lift doors shut again.

The hallway was very white, very light, and quiet. John couldn’t pick up on anything and wondered if perhaps all the flats were sound proof, which meant that there were -- or the intention was for there to be -- an abundance of Little’s living here. Either with or without Caregivers. John remembered when Sherlock had 221B renovated with soundproofing just for John when he moved in, and that was before they had even gotten together and were just flatmates.

Sherlock only paused again in front of door 4F and gave a round of hard knocks, his shoulders still square and straight. John had never seen the other man quite like this and didn’t know what to make of it. He had never seen Sherlock  _ knock _ on a door that he intended to break into...unless this wasn’t a break in. Well if not then John had no bloody clue what was going on here and he wasn’t happy about it!

Even though the flats might have been soundproofed, there were still odd whirling and latching sounds coming from the door, like machine mechanisms. Something that gave you an image of gears turning and leavers lifting. John actually took a step back behind Sherlock out of instinct before he could stop himself. Sherlock’s posture didn’t change.

Or at least not till a pair of blue eyes and and a blond head peeked through, then Sherlock gave an annoyed sigh, an exasperated, “Of course.” escaping the detective.

The blond head came with an extremely built body, aged to perfection, an expensive looking cobalt blue sweater and dark jeans ensemble, an amused and impish smirk that was directed at the detective. A twinkle of mischief in those blue eyes set the whole look on fire. And John had never seen this man in his life, which was a sort of travesty he’d never admit out loud. Or at least not in front of Sherlock.

“Sherlock,” The man lulled, voice like fine whiskey and woodsmoke, vowels coated in raw honey, “So nice to see you again. We really must stop running into each other like this, neighbors might start to talk.” He went on, leaning against the door jam and crossing his arms.

It was only up to this moment, while John was trying so hard not to gawk, that it hit him that Sherlock  _ knew  _ this man. And that they have met more than just once, but it didn’t look like any of those times were enough to write home about. But John was suddenly even more curious. 

“Out of the way, Bond. Just tell me where Quinlan is.” Sherlock growled, pushing past the blond man to get into the flat. 

The man didn’t even try to stop the detective, just let Sherlock blow past. When he finally caught sight of John he gave John a wink and waited for them both to enter before closing the door behind them. The whirling sounds of gears and such sounded again, and when John turned around he could see that there  _ really _ were machines and robotic devices that stirred around and seemed to be adding more locks and security setups to the door. 

Mentally tripping over himself (and the blond’s intense gaze), John finally got something to click, “Bond...Quinlan...we came to see your brother?” He asked, finally catching back up to Sherlock and grabbing his hand, trying to get the man to slow down and let John catch his breath on all of this.

It was impossible to be involved with one Holmes and not have another butt into your life, and the oldest two love to butt into their youngest sibling’s life. The few times John had met the youngest Holmes brother he had liked him, sharp wit like the other two,but more socially aware of how to function and pass as a human being. He knew Quinlan (“Please, call me Q”) Holmes worked for MI6, it was all John was allowed to know until time called for it. But judging from all the machines and tech bits, and how smart and knowledgeable Q was with computers, John figured Q was probably some kind of boffin for the government. That would be a huge feat for a Little if John was right, a Little just working for MI6 alone was amazing.

Funny enough, now that his thoughts were moving again, John knew about James Bond too but had just never met the man. He heard of Bond from all of the Brothers Holmes’ talks and meetings. About MI6’s top agent, the one who rarely got close to anyone (and had a tragic history with those he did, according to Q’s hushed tones in his short conversations with Sherlock and Mycroft). The Caregiver who had actually never taken a Little, but oddly seemed to have Q catch his eye. Bond got close to Q, the first Little he had ever thought about taking on.

But for some reason Bond and Q weren’t a Pair yet, even if the agent had taken to looking after Q on his time home, to care for him and make sure he ate and slept, both at home and at work. Sherlock even told John that Q had let Bond Play with him and had seen Q go Down to his Little headspace. Maybe that’s why Sherlock wasn’t too surprised to see Bond at what John was suspecting was Q’s flat.

Q, who had an uncanny resemblance to Sherlock more so than Mycroft ever did. Q and Sherlock could be twins if you glanced too quickly. Q...who also resembled three other people John had examined. Sherlock’s last few words down by the river echoed in John’s head, and he suddenly  _ understood _ why they were there and why Sherlock was so tense. 

Sherlock was worried for his little brother. His  _ Little  _ little brother.

Sherlock hadn’t pulled away from John’s grasp, but he wasn’t exactly looking at John either. Not when John had finally put together all the pieces.

“Oh, Sherlock.” The doctor sighed once it was all put together, squeezing the man’s hand. John then pushed up on his toes and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek, feeling a smidgen of tension leave the detective. “You still could have told me using actual human words, you arse.” John mumbled, but the statement wasn’t as sharp as it could have been.”

Someone clearing their throat behind them was enough for John to set back flat on his feet. The blond --Bond was there, hands in the pockets of his jeans and amused look still on his face. 

“Q is at the dining table coding, it’s why he didn’t hear the door. Though I’m sure he’d love to be interrupted by one of his favorite big brothers.” Bond informed, nodding to the hallway just past where the detective and doctor stood. 

Then, eyes fell to John again, and it was so hard not to be a tad mesmerized once more. “So sorry, seemed to have forgotten my manners,” And a hand was offered out, “I don’t think we’ve been officially introduced. Bond, James Bond. A colleague of your brother-in-law’s, I believe.” Though John and Sherlock weren’t  _ married _ in that sense, they were a Pair and had a romantic relationship together as well, and therefore were recognized by the state as such. Common Law and all that.

“More like stalker and harasser.” Sherlock sneered, gently detangling himself from his good doctor. “Don’t trust him, John. It’s his job to get under your skin and play with you. Look what he’s done with poor Quinlan.” He added as he departed from the two, supposedly to go find his brother.

John could see where Sherlock was coming from, it was hard to not stare at Bond’s eyes a little too long and forget your own name. Like now. When John had to shake himself out of his spell and take the hand the blond still offered. 

“Erm, what he said,” John nodded to where Sherlock disappeared, “John. I’m John Watson. Doctor.” He felt around for the right words and let go of Bond’s hand quickly so he could go run after his detective.

Bond, for his part, never acted like John was having some problems humaning. He just kept on that charming smile, and that look on his face like every syllable John uttered was truly fascinating. Sherlock really had a point when he warned John about this man. So what was his effect on Q if this was a fraction of what John got from him.

John skited quite literally into Sherlock’s back with how fast he had run away from Bond, not that Sherlock seemed to notice. Straightening himself out, John stepped around him to see why Sherlock had paused wasn’t already annoying his brother, and came face to face with two pairs of giant golden eyes looking right back at them. Though John had never been to Q’s flat, obviously, he did recall Q saying he had two cats that were pretty self reliant since he put in a lot of overtime at MI6. These two orange furry monstrosities must be said felines. 

These things looked to be the size of a small dog, orange and cream markings, and John couldn’t tell if they were really that big or if it was the giant sea of fur they were wearing. And they were both laid out in twin chairs on either side of Q as if protecting their human and glaring at the new intruders. Q wasn’t joking when he said they were self reliant, they looked like they could hold their own if worse came to worse. Maybe just sit on an assailant and suffocate them to death perhaps. And John also knew Sherlock was a dog person, no wonder the stare down.

Q, for his part, was still wonderfully and blissfully typing away on his laptop. Earbuds in and you could see the bright green reflection off his outdated glasses of lines of green symbols and and numbers constantly whizzing by and in work mode. Though he was the most unkempt John had ever seen. Q had a knack for dressing like an eighty-six year old man and was wispier and thinner than Sherlock (not to mention shorter) so he got cold easily, he had the biggest collection of cardigans John had ever seen. And John had had a little old grandmother who owned quite a few pink ones herself, some even had cats stitched in the pockets she embroidered there. Q even beat her out.

But Q was sitting there in a giant gray t-shirt that in no way could be his, long blue Doctor Who sleep pants that came down to his sock covered toes, and he was indeed wearing one of his cardigans -- this one was blue and red stripped. His hair was a mess, not like his usual unruly style, but more like he had just woken up and hadn’t done anything with it yet. Which is exactly what this whole thing looked like, like he woke up and instantly plugged into his computer. 

No one moved an inch, with the exception of Q continuing on typing and the cats occasionally giving a lazy tap of their tails. They just stared on, unblinking like they were egging Sherlock on to do something. It wasn’t till Bond eventually came back, slipping past them and around the cats to get to Q, the cats barely gave Bond any glance. Not caring that human was close to their their owner.

John watched Bond stand to Q’s side and slightly set his hand on one of Q’s, not hindering his work but just to get his attention. And it  _ worked _ . It was enough for Q to look up and catch Bond’s eye. Bond gave the boffin a soft smile and then nodded to where Sherlock and John were trapped. And that got them Q’s full attention, and the earbuds to come out. A questioning look on the young man’s face when he spotted his brother so close in his home but was never aware of it till just now.

“Whatever did you do to piss off my cats, Sherlock?” Q sighed as he lowered his laptop screen, not closing it completely, but enough to keep it from regaining his attention till he heard his brother out.

“ _ I  _ started nothing.” Sherlock defended himself, silently relenting and letting the felines have this round since he finally got Q to acknowledge his presence. “What is  _ he _ doing here?” The detective countered, nodding to Bond who was now standing behind Q’s shoulder like some sort of beautiful blond avenging angel. 

Q narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips, “I don’t believe I need to explain all of my life choices to you. Especially not in my own flat. Now tell me why you’re here.”

The boffin’s eyes moved over Sherlock’s shoulder in an expectant way, like he didn’t truly believe it was just the two of them. As if he were waiting for a third to pop out at any moment. 

“Mycroft isn’t with us.” John inputted, hoping to be helpful. He too had that paranoia. It was sometimes rare to just have two Holmes brothers in one place. Usually you almost always got the trio. How annoying that must have been growing up. How annoying it was  _ now _ . Q was about the only one that could be handled in large quantities, and even then it was he was the first to leave when it got to be too much. Not even Q was immune to his brothers. 

John’s comment reward him a smile from the youngest Holmes, “Hello,John, always a pleasure.” Q nodded, reaching for his tea cup at his far right and making a comical face when it twisted with displeasure at finding the cup empty.

Bond coughed, in such a way that sounded like he was trying to choke down a laugh, obviously catching the action from where he stood. Nevertheless, he still placed a hand on Q’s shoulder and gently plucked the cup from the boffin’s hand. “I’ll brew you more. You stay and speak to your brother, he looked to have been in quite a state when he showed up.” Bond straightened up and looked to Q’s guests, “Can I get you gentlemen anything while I’m at it?”

Before John could even decline the offer, Sherlock blared out, “I was  _ not _ in a state! I came here to  _ warn _ Quinlan.” The three other men in the room might have sworn Sherlock was pouting at what Bond had the nerve to insinuate.

But Bond just went back to smirking, looking more amused than ever as he moved away toward the kitchen. And with such a familiarity that had you not known how close he and Q already were you’d surely be suspecting it by now. Honestly, why weren’t he and Q a Pair yet, has anyone bothered to ask them? John made a mental note to ask Sherlock himself later.

“Warn me?” Q sat back in his chair and crossed his arms, suspicion melting to curiosity within a second’s notice. As was the Holmes way, of course “Whatever about? I don’t think I’ve done anything to you to render me such a thing. Not lately at least.” He shrugged a shoulder.

One of the giant orange balls of fluff that looked like a bear cub in a fur coat pulled itself to its feet, gave a languid stretch, a demonic yawn that showed all teeth, and flounced over to Q to drop into his lap and demand attention. There was a heavy pause as Q gave in, stroking ginger silky fur as it was his turn to stare down his brother. Sherlock looked ready to start pulling his lovely curls out because obviously his brother was just  _ not getting it _ !

John pushed Sherlock into the chair the mammoth cat had just vacated before Sherlock got too worked up and did something stupid, like start a fight with his brother. The Holmes boys were good at that, or at least the older two would rather start an argument than talk about feelings. It would be an interesting task for a Holmes to talk about the look on Sherlock’s face on the cab ride over here to Q’s flat, how worried he really was.

“Right,” John cleared his throat, taking his place by Sherlock’s shoulder just as Bond came back with a tray of four tea cups for them all. “Have you, or either of you, been watching the news as of late? About the, you know...the Little Killer.”

“James watches the news.” Q answered, making a face at the thought as he curled around his new steaming cup of tea like it was something precious and needed to be protected at all costs, still petting the mini mountain lion in his lap.

“George, come on. Down you go.” Bond scooped the other big cat out of the other chair, getting an unsettled and appalled  _ mewerl  _ from the creature, and then taking the chair over himself. “I’ve seen the headlines and such, yes.” He nodded, blowing on his tea and then taking a well mannered sip. “One of the families finally reach out to you? Though that doesn’t explain why  _ you _ are here.” He added, eyes back on Sherlock.

John too stared down at the detective, though Sherlock was paying John no mind at the moment. The news of the new body had made the papers and no doubt more media than just that by now. But Bond and Q must not have had a progressive morning outside of the coding Q had been doing. Maybe Sherlock was right to be here to warn his brother.

“What do you make of it, Q?” John finding himself asking before he could stop himself. Q was a smart lad, he had to at least know of the dangers even if he wasn’t actively interested. 

Q shrugged again, eyes going to Bond. And Bond nodded, like he was giving permission and support to go ahead. A complete Caregiver/Little move when the Little was weary or uncomfortable. But they still weren’t a Pair! It was starting to drive John a little crazy now that he was seeing this with his own eyes. No wonder Mycroft was always nagging Sherlock about John before they were a Pair, and was now nagging Q.

“I just know that there were one or two bodies pulled from the river and they were both reported missing.” Q answered simply. 

And that was it. No more elaboration. But Q also wasn’t making eye contact with anyone either, not even Bond this time. He just stared down at his tea cup, like a child hiding something or didn’t want to acknowledge something in front of him. John knew it meant Q knew a lot more than he was letting on, or was willing to face.

“Three bodies, actually.” John corrected. And he instantly gained the young Holmes’ attention once more, eyes a tad wider. “Three Littles now.”

“We just came from the preliminary examination. This one was in the river as well.” Sherlock jumped in, never looking away from his brother. “Quinlan...he looked  _ just like you _ .” There was so much worry and actual emotion sodden in that sentence you’d never know it was Sherlock Holmes who uttered it. The simple utterance was enough to explain why he had gone in search of his little brother a thousand times over.

Q had three pairs of eyes glued on him, watching what he’d do next. And it might have been just John, but the poor boy looked a shade or two paler than he had a moment ago. Any paler and Q would absolutely be transparent. 

“Well he obviously  _ isn’t _ me since I’m still right here. Being bothered by my older brother, aren’t I.” Q snarled, shoulders haunching like he was trying to turn in on himself and maybe hide, but all he accomplished was just sounding too defensive. The stares were most likely making him uneasy. Or this whole thing was, judging by how Q tried to down play all this and frign like he knew less than he really did. 

It was Bond who stepped in, folding his hands on the table and resjusting himself in his seat, “The first boy they found, the Grace boy. I had just gotten back from Istanbul and was at my flat, he hadn’t been at Six when I got in.” The blond nodded to the youngest Holmes. “I was exhausted and had a cracked rib and eye socket. All I wanted was sleep.Then I heard about the body on the news on the telly I had on just for background noise, and I saw the photo...first glance I did think it was Q.” He admitted, giving the boffin and sad smile.

Q looked a tad shocked, this mustn’t have been something Bond had told him before. He bit his lip and set his tea cup down to wrap both arms around the cat in his arms and heavy it higher in a fuzzy hug like he was in need of some kind of support or something to hide behind. The cat meowed in surprise since it must have been asleep, and gave a half hearted growl. But it didn’t fight the boffin off.

“The second body, the girl,” Bond went on, turning back to Sherlock and John. “Put a wig on Q and it’s her.” He nodded. 

Bond was a smart man as well. Clearly not a Holmes in any way, but he was trained to look at mess of dots and connect them. He had been thinking the same thing Sherlock and John had been, and was relieved when someone said it out loud first. “And they’re all Littles. The killer has a type. I assume the third body cements it.” He nodded.

“Yes. So much so that he gets royally pissed when someone turns out to be a fake.” Sherlock bit out, an almost sour look on his pretty face. He was actually glaring at Bond, as if it was just the most horrible thing in the world that he had to agree with Bond on something. “The third body was actually blond, he was dying his hair. They dumped him as soon as he was dead, barely even touched him. He was even found completely dressed.”

“And Sherlock believes that now the killer might be on the hunt for two targets next,” John continued, “To replace this boy too. Hes looking for people -- Littles -- that look remarkably similar to Q.”

“And you came all this way over here because, what, you think that I can’t take take of myself?” Q asked his brother, finally letting go of the cat that was starting to wiggle. John finally caught the name  _ Fred  _ on a name tag when the little beastie trotted away.

“I thought I was coming to warn you, to remind you to be careful. But you seem to have gone out and gotten yourself a guard dog.” Sherlock replied, looking like he was still trying to kill Bond with his mind.

“James isn’t my pet, he’s a friend.” Q bit back, all manner of looking like he wasn’t trying to hide himself away any more the more worked up he got with his brother.

“Silly me, my mistake in thinking of your usual penchant for keeping around giant, sharp killing machines around who need a good cuddle.” Sherlock waved off.

“Just because you don’t like cats, or James, and think I’m a weak and helpless Little doesn’t mean you get to come into my home and insult me, Sherlock!” Q was on his feet now, and the high apples of his cheeks were turning red with anger and frustration. Very much like an upset child, or one ready to start a tantrum.

So much for avoiding a fight between the brothers. And even if Q was almost always composed and poise, even as a Little, family always had an odd knack at getting under your skin just right and make you want to gouge out their eyes. No one knew you better to do it so precisely. 

“We meant no disrespect.” John tried to defuse the tension, yanking at Sherlock’s arm and praying he just shut up. “Q, we’re not saying  _ you  _ are a target. We’re just asking you to please be careful, alright. It looks like its really getting dangerous out there. And you know Sherlock just cares, he sure is doing a bang up job of showing it.”

Bond cleared his throat, still seated, evaluating everyone silently from his position. But he placed a hand on the table in front of Q, saying softly, “Perhaps, if you sat back down, darling, you can hear your brother out better.”

You’d think it was a placting, and patronizing comment. Most Littles trying to live independently would have snapped at someone trying to talk to them like that when they weren’t in their headspace. But Q said nothing, only contemplating it over before he slowly did as Bond suggested. There must have been a lot of trust and understanding there for Bond to know just how to speak to Q without it making the situation worse.

Only, as soon as Q was back in his chair, Sherlock sprung out of his, almost knocking John over with how close he had been standing to the man. Sherlock just barely had the sense to reach out and steady John, just he didn’t let go of the doctor. 

“I believe our time and presence is needed elsewhere.” Sherlock mumbled, pulling John with him as he made his way out of the room and not looking back at his brother.

“What the-- Sherlock!” John yelled, trying to slow the older Holmes down. “Sherlock, we can’t just leave! You wanted to talk to Q, so talk!”

John looked over his shoulder to see Bond and Q slowly trailing along behind them as Sherlock made his hasty retreat. Both looked alarmed and confused, Q had a hold of Bond’s arm and looked slightly hurt  and crestfallen but said nothing.

“I did, and he heard me. And so we’re done.” Sherlock shrugged, long legs getting him to the door before anyone else could stop him. 

But the door could. It still had all those complex locks and whirly gears as added security. And Sherlock hadn’t had the time to study them to see how they operate and open. But he also didn’t turn back around to ask Q for assistance to open his door. Sherlock just glared menacingly at the mechanisms like he could will it to open for him mentally.

John was glaring too, but at the detective rather than the door. John and Q were the Littles, but sometimes Sherlock acted so much more immature than any Little you’d ever meet. He finally threw up his free and and turned back to the two behind them.

“I’m so sorry about this.” John sighed, again trying to tug out of Sherlock’s hold but getting nowhere. He was going to give the man a right piece of his mind when they got home. “Can one of you get the door for us, please?” He finally relented.

Q was biting at his bottom lip, eyes on the back of his brother’s head. They looked shinier under Q’s glasses than they had at the table, and John didn’t think it was just because of the change of lighting. Sherlock was probably embarrassed showing how much he cared and how worried he was, but Q just looked upset that his brother was now running away from him. No hint of previously feeling insulted about his brother’s warning anywhere now.

It had been Bond who nodded and kissed Q’s head before sipping out of the young man’s hold. He had opened the door when Sherlock first knocked so he knew how to do it again, flipping open a small box that blended into the wall by the door and hitting a couple numerical keys. The whirls and whizzing started on the door, latches and levers moving, finally a pop and the door unlocked.

Sherlock grabbed the door handle and yanked it open without so much a goodbye when he rushed through the doorway. Though John did gave a sad wave before they were out of sight. Catching Bond going back to a small looking Q who had his arms around himself like he was cold. And the door thudded closed behind them.

They might have just made this whole situation gravely worse.

 


	3. Blue Isn't Always The Warmest Colour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Holidays got crazy at work, so I had to write bits and pieces of this at a time. And then I've been sick all week this week, but I made myself finish this chapter so we can all move on with our lives!
> 
> Sidenote: I am not British,I'm making most of the details of places up. Like St Bart's in this chapter for instance. I just have Google Maps for geography help. I don't know where the actual mourge is, I just know that the older hospitals use to keep them in the basement where it was cooler.  
> \-------------------------------
> 
> I'd like to say thank you to my commenters, you guys, this chapter is for you. Your awesome words really got me through this last bit. You helped assure me that this whole story isn't complete shit. Thank you, and I love you!  
> \---------------------------------
> 
> So first time writing Mycroft! And a little bit of some Mystrade you. He's still not as intimidating to write as Q (speaking of which, yay, go Ben on your Golden Globes! Anyone seen A Very English Scandle yet? I'm waiting for my bestie (my RP Q actually) to watch it first)
> 
> Q and James will be back inchapter 4, hopefully with some insight on what Q's deal is. Maybe even little bit of Eve too ;)
> 
> I'm also hoping to add some Bondlock Playtime in the next chapter. I wanted to add it in here but I just wanted to post this chapter now so we can move on.

After all that trouble and drama, things quieted down relatively fast. There was no more news of bodies found in the river, and NSY was keeping an eye on it every evening, questioning anyone who looked a tad bit suspicious. But there wasn’t enough to warrant official searches every morning just yet. There was one warning in the news to Littles taking caution when it came to being out at night alone.  _ One _ . And it was just a general warning to them all, not just to those who seemed to fit the profile the killer had taken a liking to. After that there was talk of it no more, with the exception of the last body that had been dragged up from the water. There was a search for the poor boy’s family in the States to come claim him and take him home. Till then, Evan Yeager’s residence remained the morgue at St Bartholomew, so very far from home.

John had seen Molly Hooper’s notes himself on both the bodies of Aiden Grace and Mary-Alice Knight. And as a Little himself, yeah, he did feel something dark and heavy in his gut. But he had seen worse, if not just as bad in the middle of Afghanistan, and even during round rotation at med school. What did hit him was just how young they were, how they had loved ones who feared the worse when they were gone, and had those fears solidify when the bodies were found. John was a damn good doctor and knew how to do his job, but he could never find how to just completely detach from it all like Sherlock could, or even Mycroft. There were just a handful of times he envied the Holmeses.

He was wishing for a bit of that now, as the cold, stale air of the morgue hit his face and seemed to freeze his lungs. Evan Yeager’s body was displayed on his assigned gurney, sticking out like a pop up toy from the wall that was full of drawers and other bodies. Evan’s eyes were closed this time, his skin seemed to be even grayer than it had been when he was soaking wet by the river bank now that he had been pickled in autopsy chemicals. He looked positively alien. And the large, and highly obvious Y-incision that was puckered and stitched from his collarbone down didn’t help anything of the sort.

Sherlock was taking his own samples from the boy, official this time instead of the once over he had at the riverside, standing on one side of the body. Molly Hooper opposite of him on Evan’s other side, a clipboard in her hand and answered the questions Sherlock rattled off the best she could. It was all a familiar song and dance, but now that Molly had seemingly moved on from her misguided crush she had on Sherlock, she used these opportunities as some kind of challenge.

Because of Sherlock, Molly had actually gotten promoted to Head Medical Examiner. He made her look deeper and find answers to questions she didn’t even have yet. So by now, they were basically level colleagues and Molly valued that even more than just a crush, and knew Sherlock and John fitted together much better. And Sherlock treated her with much more respect than, say, Anderson.

John was at the foot of the gurney, staring up at Evan, arms crossed as he thought of the family that was about to get the worst phone call of their lives. He wondered if Sherlock’s worry was for naught, or if one day it really would be Q stretched out and stitched up in the morgue one day, his own brother leaned over him and examining him with that damned tiny spy glass Sherlock had out once more.

“For the  _ billionth _ time, Sherlock, I don’t know why you’re down here.” Molly, blessed woman, could still only handle so much Sherlock at once. And her patience was running out. “There is even less on him than the other two. His C2 vertebra was fractured, just as John said during the preliminary. Bruises developed postmortem.” She indicated to just under Evan’s chin where the dark marks were formed just under skin, starting to take the form of what looked liked rounded almond shapes. Finger-shaped bruises. That’d get them a measure of the hand of the killer at least. 

“That’s really all. No drugs in his system, not even alcohol. And usually the first thing underage Americans do when they’re here is take advantage of the different legal drinking age compared to back home.” Molly added as she looked through the printed results on her clipboard again, even handing them out to Sherlock to catch a glance at them himself. 

John actually had no idea what Sherlock was looking for when he hummed at Molly’s findings, but it was the hum he used when he knew someone was talking but he wasn’t really listening, just replying and reacting like he was expected to. And Molly gave a slow exhale like she was trying to keep from screaming. Or using blunt force trauma with previously mentioned clipboard. John couldn’t blame her, really.

“And what of his clothes?” Sherlock finally asked when he straightened back up, giving the woman in front of him his full attention again. Though gone where the days when such a thing would make Molly swoon.

“Scotland Yard is examining them. I’m just an ME.” Molly answered, meeting his gaze head on. It looked like the vein in her temple was starting to throb in irritation.

“And why would you go and do _that_?” Sherlock bemoaned, shoving his spyglass in his pocket and grabbing at his hair. “Now all chances of finding anything is ruined.”  
“Because it’s their job.” Molly reminded, still doing well at holding her ground and not falling victim to Sherlock’s blame.

“Any chance of finding some kind of evidence is ruined before Scotland Yard get their hands in it.” John finally piped in. “He was in the water for a couple hours, all chance of any kind of transfer would have deteriorated.” 

Those must not have been the right words, because now Sherlock was accusing him with such a betrayed, infuriated glare that John actually took a step back, even if there was a good five feet in between them, not to mention a body. John understood Sherlock was going through something a bit personal, but...he never thought he’d be the one at the end of Sherlock’s ire in such a way.

Seeming to understand the two-against-one situation, Sherlock said no more and spun out of the room, leaving the three of them in his wake. It was just too bad Sherlock wasn’t wearing his coat or it really would have been an exist to see.

“There is something wrong with him.” Molly commented as she pulled up the sheet that was covering Evan Yeager up over his head.

“Have you met him? He’s Sherlock,  _ of course _ there is something wrong with him.” John sighed, helping Molly give the gurney a push back in the wall of drawers.

She gave a shake of her brown ponytail, latching and locking Evan’s door. “Something else, John. Last time he was like this it was personal, it was Moriarty. But this seems, I don’t know,” Molly turned back to her fellow doctor and gave an empty shrug, “Seems like  _ more _ .”

Sometimes John hated how intuitive she could be, it was a tad annoying when you were trying to keep something from getting out. He didn’t want to get into the fact that Sherlock was worried about his brother and was now becoming an obsessive arse. It wasn’t his place, it wasn’t his family really. And he knew Sherlock would hate him if he made Molly think differently of him or see him as weak in the middle of his worry. It’s why Sherlock had departed Q’s flat in the way he did. Sherlock didn’t like being seen as being weak or having a weakness. It’s what Moriarty had exploited. It was dangerous to have pressure points.

So all John could do was give a shrug, his hands in the pockets of his trousers. “Family problems, you know.” He answered vaguely.

But to Molly, who had indeed met Mycroft but not Q, just nodded in some kind of new understanding. Like it all made so much sense. Though, in her defense, Mycroft had an impressive ability to make anyone spitting mad after just one brush with him. So perhaps it really was a supposed reasonable answer for Sherlock’s behavior. 

“Maybe he could use a distraction, some time  _ not _ driving himself and others crazy.” She suggest, giving John a pointed look.

Before you met her and sensed her, you’d never believe Molly Hooper was a Caregiver. It was only later when you got to know her, and how she cares for her friends and gave some good insightful advice did it really make sense. But since she wasn’t John’s Caregiver she couldn’t just out right come out and say maybe he should go Play with Sherlock later, she’d be too scared of sounding rude. You didn’t just butt into a couple’s Playtime with your own thoughts and suggestions. 

But John still understood what she was saying all the same, and didn’t take any insult to it. “I don’t know.” He shook his head, rubbing tiredly at his face. He hadn’t been sleeping well because Sherlock hadn’t been sleeping, and Sherlock hadn’t been sleeping since his little show at Q’s. “He’s a bit...manic at the moment to ask for such a thing.”

Molly shoved her hands in her white lab coat once everything was put away and everyone was locked back securely in their designated drawers, tilting her head at John, staring at him in such a way it was like she was sizing him up, observing him in such a way only Caregivers could really read when it came to Littles. It still didn’t make John feel less uncomfortable by it, even if she was a friend and not a threat.

“As much as Littles would love to believe it, sometimes Caregivers don’t always know what’s right, or when the best time to Play is.” Molly said, such solidness that it was almost as if she were speaking from experience. Maybe she was, John didn’t pry into her personal life if she weren’t already sharing. “Sometimes they need to be reminded that Playing holds just much calmness and comfort to them as it does for a Little.”

John was quiet for a moment, a little taken aback. Had Molly really been this wise and they were really just good at ignoring it most times? And what would Sherlock say if he were still in the room to hear this? Would he agree, or would he just throw another fit about someone seeing right through him to his feelings? Were they sure  _ John  _  was the Little here?

All John could do was offer her a forced smile and a small nod, “I’ll think about it if I see an opening to bring it up.” That was the best he could offer with someone as unpredictable as Sherlock. “Thanks, Molly.” He waved as he took his leave. He needed to go hunt down the jackarse he was in love with and all but promised his life to. 

But Molly had left John with much to think about as he took the lift from the morgue in the basement up to the main floor of Bart’s, where he presumed Sherlock had gone for some air to calm down. In the middle of what looked like some kind of serial spree, Sherlock was always like some small child on Christmas morning. And with a killer that had such a taboo liking too. Just because they had gotten involved later didn’t mean that Sherlock hadn’t been following it since day one when they found Adien Grace. Sherlock had been just as morbidly curious as everyone else, if not more so, he just didn’t bother hiding it.

But ever since Evan Yeager’s body and getting personal with Q, yeah, John supposed there really hadn’t been any personal time between the two of them. Romantic or otherwise. Yes, maybe some Playtime was just what they needed. Reclerbrate, if you will.

John left the lift with a slightly lighter feeling than he had in the morgue. And when he finally caught sight of Sherlock’s from the windows that lead you outside, John felt even better about his plan to talk to the other man about some down time. Or he had till he walked out Bart’s front doors and noticed Sherlock wasn’t alone. John could tell that just by seeing how tight Sherlock’s muscles in his back were pulled long before John actually saw who it was that had find Sherlock before him.

While it had been a couple days since John had seen Greg Lestrade, when they had met by the river examining Evan, it still didn’t mean it was always good news to see him, and it felt far too soon to John. But it was the third man who made John internally groan, the real reason he was sure Sherlock looked like a wound up bow string ready to pop. It was impossible not to go a week without seeing the oldest Holmes brother, really it was. It was even more impossible not to see him when you were deeply in love with one of his youngest brothers -- John had a sudden wondering if James Bond had to deal with Mycroft Holmes on the regular too with his whatever-it-is he’s playing with Q.

Of course it was Mycroft who spotted John coming up behind the trio, a slick, humorless smile that always appeared on his lips when John seemed to have just walk in on a Brain Trust meeting and was totally lost. John really thought it was just the default setting for the man for everyone he met, no way was he so lucky to be honored with that look just for him.

“Ah, the kind doctor. Just in time. Good day, Brother-in-Law.” Mycroft had one hand wrapped around the ever present umbrella that was probably just a placeholder for some kind of scepter or whatnot given the way the man carried himself, his other hand in the pocket of his crisp and dreadfully expensive trousers of his suit. Nothing surprising there or anything given away in his stance about why he was there with the Detective Inspector cornering his brother at St Bart’s.

Sherlock still took a half a step in front of John, nevertheless, a hand on his Little’s arm. Though he wasn’t really looking at John, like he was scared that if he broke eye contact with his brother then Mycroft would strike like the snake he really was. That, and Sherlock just had almost four decades of experience with Mycroft to know better.

“Mycroft, Detective Lestrade.” John nodded from where he could see just past Sherlock. “I’d be afraid to ask if there was another body, but that wouldn’t explain what Mycroft was doing here. Unless you just happened to fancy a stroll arm in arm, and you running into your brother is some sort of cute coincidence.”

That was probably a little lower than he had intended, John had nothing against Lestrade. But he also aware of the hot-and-cold thing running between Lestrade and Mycroft, and it was a tad rudder than usual for John to bring it up like that because it really was none of his business, he wasn’t Sherlock. John knew how complicated a relationship between two Caregivers can get. Sometimes it took taking a Little in the middle to keep it smooth.

But he also didn’t like how tense Mycroft always made Sherlock, someone John loved and cared for. So his bite was nastier than needed at this particular moment. And he might apologize later, but right now it got him a ghost of a smile on Sherlock’s handsome face.

It also earned him a chilly glare from Mycroft promising that John would regret that, and an awkward throat clearing from Lestrade who took a half a step back from Mycroft, pulling at the collar of his shirt. The whole thing just made John curiouser, and maybe a little hopeful that there really was no new body. 

“I mentioned to Mycroft in, uh, passing how we’re getting no leads for Evan Yeager, not here or in New York where we sent his case back.” Lestrade finally started, putting on his Detective Mood to try to alleviate some awkwardness. “He offered for MI5 to help out and give a hand, incase this really is a serial.”

“Oh, I have no doubt he offered to give you a good hand.” Sherlock input, voice his usual deep monotone baritone. His comment was officially worse than John’s, though, and he was Mycroft’s new target. John and Sherlock were both going to need to sleep with one eye open for a couple weeks, for sure.

“But you finally found his family?” John asked, trying to bring this back to the topic at hand. As easy as it was to make Mycroft the butt of Sherlock’s comments, there was a boy who needed to get back home and have a proper burial.

“Indeed, we think we have.” Mycroft nodded, tearing away from his silent threats and promises to his brother. “Unfortunately, we could have gotten a confirmation sooner, but one of our more distinguished MI5/MI6 liaisons...claimed they were busy.”

Not all the words were there, but that had to mean that Mycroft went to someone for help on this, to track Evan’s life and kin down, and they told Mycroft no. Could it have been Q? Would he really have told his brother no, he would not help this poor Little who looked like him get home? Would Evan’s body be on a plane somewhere now back to his family instead of that cold impersonal drawer in the basement?  Mycroft had to have other reliable boffins at his disposal to track this all down instead of  _ just  _ his brother, right?

Lestrade pulled out a black leather bound tablet from the inside of his tan Detective's coat, John didn’t have to have Sherlock’s keen eyes to catch the gold monogram MH in the leather before it was folded back and the screen was lit up with a photo of a boy who looked like Evan, but alive and full of so much color. Sherlock took the offered tablet and started to scroll through it.

“Evan Yeager, drummer for the band Autumn Falls. Hmm, clever.” Sherlock read. And, indeed, there was a photo of Evan wearing something similar to what the boy had been found in. “Explains some of the findings and calluses on his hands.”

“His band mates are all from Brooklyn, New York or thereabouts.” Lestrade nodded, swiping a couple times on the tablet to a new picture of three other people all with instruments in their hands and microphones in front of them. “They have a small underground current of followers, more here than the States actually. We found most of these on their social media page than anything.”

“And the rest of the band, they’re alright? Do they know about Evan?...” John asked, watching all the photos of the boy Sherlock looked through. He looked happy, in his zone, doing what he loved. It sounded like his band was picking up some speed, could have really gone places. And all that changed in a blink of an eye and mistaken identity.

“Mycroft found where they were staying, and I sent some of my officers over there. They’ll stay with them for a bit. But they’re all accounted for. The lead singer, Aqua, she’s contacting Evan’s parents back home, they’ve been out of town with a sick parent in hospice and haven’t really seen the news about their boy. A shame to lose their son and a parent so soon like that all in one go.”

What a tragic time to have fallen on the Yeagers indeed, John’s heart just grew heavier and heavier for all of them. If someone could have warned the band about coming here, or if they could have gotten gotten Evan to change his mind about the dark hair dye. Anything to keep this from happening.

“And, what, they just happened to miss their drummer missing for a couple days? The shows just went on without him?” Sherlock asked with an eye roll, no sympathy for idiot people and their idiot actions.

“See, that’s where it gets weird.” Lestrade again reached past them to swipe to a photo he was looking for, and paused on a whole lot of blue hair. The girl was gorgeous, cat like lined eyes, dark skin that made John think of cinnamon, and a large cloud of neon blue hair that looked to match the same color of her eyes. He couldn’t tell which one was fake, or if they were both real. She was seen there writing something with a boy that was clearly Evan. They looked close, friendly, maybe even loving. 

“Aqua said that Evan had been acting weird since their second showing in East London.” So the girl in blue must be Aqua, the lead singer, a Caregiver perhaps. “Secretive, disappearing for a few hours at a time. He was never one to hide things from her, but suddenly he was texting all the time and always made sure to not do it anywhere around her.”

“So, he met someone at one of the shows?” John guessed.

“And its either our killer, or this blindingly blue person is jealous and she really killed him. Took advantage of the serial killer rumors and used it in her favor.” Sherlock shrugged.

“What have I told you of jumping to the most obvious conclusions without evidence, dear brother.” Mycroft chastised, tutting his head.

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes, but John didn’t need to see it in Sherlock’s head to know what he was thinking. Mycroft was right, and god, how annoying it was when that happens.

“Did we find a phone on the body?” Sherlock inquired to the Detective Inspector. At the river there was only talk of Evan’s wallet.

Lestrade shook his head, “Nothing else in his pockets, and Aqua swears Evan kept his phone close to him nowadays. But we’re working on getting his phone records and messages.” He was side eyeing Mycroft now.

It was the elder Holmes’ turn to look exasperated now, “Yes, yes, we’re working on it. It’d just go a lot faster if  _ someone _ lent a hand. They could probably even find the damn phone too, even if it was in the middle of the bloody river.”

Again, that sounded like Mycroft was trying to get Q to help. And, again, it sounded like Q was telling Mycroft no. Or maybe John was just too fixated on the whole thing and he needed to really move on. Damn all the Holmeses for teaching him how to be obsessive.

“Excellent. Try to get any kind of video of their performances too, see if we can get an eye on the person who struck young Evan’s fancy. And, Lestrade, I’d like a word with this blue person and the rest of this seasonal folly.” Sherlock listed, closing the tablet and handing it to his brother, because Sherlock had no doubt just who the tablet belonged to.

Mycroft just gave Sherlock a look, like he shouldn’t be as surprised that Sherlock knew the tablet was his. But he still took it and folded the tablet under his arm, just in time for a black unmarked car with dark tinted windows to pull up to the welcome entrance just behind them. A dark window rolled down, and Mycroft’s ever present assistant, Anthea, leaned out.

“Sir, we need to be leaving now if you and the Detective Inspector are to make your 5 o’clock reservation.” Anthea called out, her phone that was basically another limb in her hand was held up as evidence to where else Mycroft and Lestrade were  _ needed _ .

It was enough for Sherlock to arch a brow at his brother in question, a nice smirk on his lips. Oh, how fun their next meeting will be now that it looked like Mycroft and Lestrade were official on again. Maybe if they were lucky then Mycroft would try to stay away a bit longer than usual to postpone that one.

Mycroft just held one finger up, as if to threaten Sherlock to not utter a word. Something you’d see a strict father do with his children when they were being naughty and he promised punishment if they continued. Something Mycroft never seemed to really get when it came to his younger brothers, he wasn’t their father, it’s why it was so much fun not to listen to him.

It was Lestrade who ended up catching Mycroft’s hand and slowly walk them back to the car. “Right,” He nodded in Sherlock and John’s direction, “Until next time, boys. But hopefully not too soon, eh? You two enjoy your evening.”

John had never seen Mycroft let anyone physically pull him around till he had seen the older Holmes with Lestrade. It was sweet, almost. If you didn’t know Mycroft well, or personally. Sort of. But it still worked, they still got in the car and proceeded to drive off. Leaving Sherlock and John at the front door to St Bart’s alone.

“They’ll last a week this time before they’re on the outs again.” Sherlock commented as they lost sight of the black car and wrapped his arm more securely around John. 

Sherlock started leading them away from the doors and the hospital building, probaby to hail a cab and get home themselves. John had no comment on the older Caregivers, sure it was sad that they couldn’t work their relationship out. But Mycroft was a control freak, and Lestrade was a bit of a masochist to even put up with the eldest Holmes. Not that John was saying there was a chance he was completely sane being with Sherlock, but at least Sherlock was a tad more loose and mellow. If Mycroft and Lestrade were ever to get real serious then they’d have actually work out their problems. Maybe really look into bringing in a Little. Anthea would actually be perfect for them if it were to get that far.

“Sherlock, I think we should Play when we get home.” John found himself blurting out just as Sherlock had raised an arm to get a cabbie’s attention. 

It wasn’t  _ exactly _ how and where John wanted to breach the topic, probably not even what Molly had in mind either. But John still held his head high and didn’t even react when he felt Sherlock pause against him. It was rare that he got to shock Sherlock, and most of the time it was fun. 

When a cab finally took pity on them and pulled up next to them, that was when John chanced a look at the Holmes. Sherlock had that face he got when he was calculating something that turned up with a displeasing result. It was only then that John started to feel a trickle of anxiousness.

“Sherlock?...”

“John, are you sure?” Was what John finally got from the man, “I know it has been a couple days since we’ve Played, but I don’t know if I would be--”

“It doesn’t always have be about  _ you  _ taking care of  _ me  _ , you know.” The Little interjected, taking his Caregiver’s free hand and giving it a squeeze. “We take care of each other, and sometimes I know you could use it just as much as I do.” John added in what Molly had reminded him. “But with everything that has happened lately, I think we might need it a bit.”

Sherlock stared at their hands, and he wasn’t seeming to be annoyed or like he was just about to prove John wrong. No, it was one of those handful of times where he was really listening to John and taking his words to heart. Maybe they really did need to start listening to Molly more. Because in the end, Sherlock did nod, and offer John a precious smile that John couldn’t help but return. And when Sherlock had leaned down to kiss John they were only interrupted by the cabbie honking his horn in impatience. It was then that Sherlock made a face at the driver and yanked open the door for his Little.

“Pick this up at home?” John pressed again before he slid into the backseat, he wanted a concrete answer. Give them something to look forwards to, some kind of release from all this, however temporary.

Sherlock pecked John’s forehead this time, an echo of his previous smile for John at the corner of his lips. “Promise, Love.” He whispered in his lovely doctor’s ear. And everyone knew that Sherlock always kept his promise when it came to his Little, it’s what actually made him a pretty good Caregiver. It was still fun to surprise people who were still learning that.


End file.
